


Silvered Suffering

by roswyrm



Category: Original Work
Genre: Ballroom Dancing, Gen, Identity Issues, Royalty, Science Fiction & Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-06-23 19:58:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19708354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roswyrm/pseuds/roswyrm
Summary: AVA wonders if maybe her operating system is flawed.





	Silvered Suffering

**Author's Note:**

> hey remember the witch lesbian and the robot lesbian? i wrote more of the robot lesbian. i love her.

Prince Châtilet is an attractive young man. His black hair normally falls in waves about his face, but tonight, he has it braided intricately, trailing over his left shoulder. His cheeks are round and soft, and tonight there is a soft pink glow about them from excitement or exertion. He is smiling with his entire face, dimples appearing, dark eyes crinkling at the corners. “Shall we dance, AVA?” AVA looks to her prince’s mother. The Queen is preoccupied, tickling under the Faerie Dragon’s chin. The Faerie Dragon, outfitted with a shined iron muzzle to prevent it from biting or using its breath weapon, backs away as much as its silvered cage will allow, fury in its eyes. Her prince takes her hand. “AVA,” he admonishes gently, “you needn’t mother’s permission.” She laughs at herself, the sound light and delicate, tinkling out of her throat in a way she recognises but doesn’t quite relate to.

She wonders if maybe her operating system is flawed. **«of course,»** AVA answers, **«i would love to dance, my prince.»** Prince Châtilet beams, pearly white teeth glinting under the high above chandeliers. He spins AVA out onto the ballroom floor, her silvered shoes glistening along with her silvered skirts. They seem to twist the way cloth would, but that’s only a trick of the lighting. AVA is not worthy of such glamour, not when it might get caught between her joints and rip the tender fabric. Her gorgeous dress is a part of her, designed on, allowing only so much room for her legs to move before they clink into the shell of her petticoats. Her sleeves are a part of her arms, ruffles upon ruffles of gorgeous lace only a trick of the eye and of the court mages’ magic. Her prince smiles at her, and her Venetian mask face does not smile back, for it cannot. **«you are a lovely dancer, my prince,»** AVA says, and the smile is evident in her synthetic voice.

Her prince laughs. “Why thank you, AVA. You are as well; you haven’t pinched me once tonight.” AVA’s internal mechanisms whirr faster at the praise. Her hands are carefully articulated. They took months for the court mechanist to design, and months more for the court artist to paint with their flowered finery. All those joints are prone to pinching the prince’s delicate skin, occasionally drawing blood.

“AVA,” shrills the Queen from her throne, “what are you _doing?”_ She stands, and the minstrels stop playing. The ballroom falls silent as she slowly, regally descends the steps toward her son and his automaton. AVA hurriedly takes a demure step back, bowing low to her Queen. “This is a night for my son, AVA. He must find a bride. You are not to be that bride. _You are not to dance.”_ AVA does not straighten her back. The Queen knocks her to the ground. Above her, AVA hears, “Play something fast-paced, Marion. An Allemande, perhaps. AVA, come stand by my throne.”

AVA gets to her feet, silvered shoes still glistening, silvered skirts still twirling. Her prince shoots her an apologetic look as the strains of a new song begin. A lovely girl, taller than the prince by a good deal, takes his fair hand in hers. She clearly doesn’t have to worry about pinching someone's fingers in her own, the soft-skinned digits never overheating or freezing up. AVA’s operating system needs an update; jealousy should not worm in her metallic heart. For it must be jealousy, this sudden surging in her chest cavity can only be a jealousy of the girl’s soft hands, her delicate ankles, her plush lips. AVA says nothing, standing silently at the foot of the Queen’s throne, opposite from the Faerie Dragon in its silvered cage.

AVA must admit, the shell of her petticoats feels much like a cage of her own.

**Author's Note:**

> I LOVE HER BUT THIS MEANS IM MEAN EVEN THOUGH I JUST WANT TO GIVE HER A HUG.


End file.
